


“Fighting Back” (or: Batman is a Vampire… as well as the Justice League’s Designated Dad™)

by That_aussie_otaku_hermit



Series: Assorted Batfamily works [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Bruce Wayne being the Designated Dad™, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, I based the cult off the Dawnguard and the Silver Hand from Skyrim, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pov, Some background developing/pre-Trinity/SuperWonderBat, Urban Fantasy, Vampire Batfamily (DCU), Vampire Bruce Wayne, Vampire Dick Grayson, Vampire Kate Kane, Vampire Martha Wayne, Vampire Tim Drake, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23541457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_aussie_otaku_hermit/pseuds/That_aussie_otaku_hermit
Summary: “Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!”― Bram Stoker, ‘Dracula’.Batman is no God. He’s vulnerable, mortal. He eats, he sleeps, he bleeds, just as humans do.But he is not human, and he is not alone.After all, Bats—and Vampires—live in Colonies.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne & Barry Allen, Bruce Wayne & Clark Kent & Diana (Wonder Woman), Bruce Wayne & Connor Kent, Bruce Wayne & His Kids, Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Justice League & Bruce Wayne, Past Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne - Relationship, Selina Kyle & Bruce Wayne
Series: Assorted Batfamily works [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694281
Comments: 35
Kudos: 313





	1. “I’ve Got An Army Of My Own”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from “Fighting Back”, by Gabriel Brown:
> 
>  _“‘Good will find a way’,  
> _  
>  _That’s what they tell me.  
> _  
>  _But as long as there’s evil,  
> _  
>  _A hero has to rise.  
> _  
>  _But I don’t have to stand alone against a thousand armies,  
> _  
>  _I’ve got an army of my own!  
> _  
>  …  
>  _‘Cause as long as we’re alive, we’re fighting back tonight!”_
> 
> Honestly I’ve been meaning to write something about Vampire Bruce since I rewatched the movie “Batman vs Dracula”, a few years ago. There’s also that one scene between Batman and Green Lantern from “Justice League: War” (https://youtu.be/UTEKkSFtcJE) which I found greatly hilarious and took heavy inspiration from. 
> 
> I hope everyone’s doing okay in the midst of this COVID-19 crisis! Remember to stay hydrated and nourished, maintain your personal hygiene, look out for the most at-risk (elderly, immunocompromised, infants, people who’ve recently had surgery, etc), don’t panic buy, stay informed, and stay safe. :)

“A _Vampire?”_

Martha Wayne smiled down at her son, chestnut hair cascading down exposed shoulders. She wore a sundress, today, taking advantage of one of Gotham’s rare cloudless days. She and Bruce sat in the sunroom, and Alfred joined them after fixing them up a cup of peppermint tea each. Bruce sat on Martha’s lap, facing her, and Alfred sat beside the two on the plush white couch. This one was a gift from Martha’s brother, along with the fluffy rug below it.

“Yes, Bruce. That’s what you are. I’m a Vampire too—most of my family is as well. Your cousin Kate is a vampire too, even though her mother isn’t.”

The four-year-old’s sky-blue eyes widened in awe. 

He turned to Alfred. 

“Are you a Vampire, Al?” 

Alfred shook his head with a smile. “No, master Bruce, I am entirely human.”

Bruce nods resolutely, idly nibbling on his bottom lip. 

“Vampires…” He repeats the word, testing it. “Like…” He leaned in close, as if sharing a great secret. “Dracula?” 

Martha’s smile didn’t waver, but Alfred caught the twitch of her eye, the tension in her shoulders.

Martha grips Bruce’s shoulders and draws him back so he’s looking up at her. 

“Dracula… Is a bad man. He represents the reason why Vampires are so hated by the world. We’re not that different from humans, aside from needing blood more than meat, but Dracula has made us all out to be...” She paused, struggling for words. 

“Evil?” Bruce suggests. 

“Yes, sweetness. Evil. But we’re not, okay? People aren’t born evil, no one ever is—they might be brought up in an evil house or by evil people, but they are never that way from the start. They are made that way. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, Bruce?”

Alfred had always admired that about Martha—she never talked down to anyone. Never. She always made sure she spoke in a way others could understand. She’d even started learning German so one of their gardeners didn’t feel so out of place. She had a lot to say, but she didn’t disguise it behind fanciful, esoteric words. 

She was CEO of Wayne Enterprises for a reason, after all. 

Bruce nods. “Like how you said some people take medicine to help them stop being sad?”

Martha nods. “Yes, sweetness, though it’s a little more complicated than that. Sometimes there are things inside a person that can make them do evil things—and sometimes it just takes some medicine and some people helping them for the person to get better. Or to start getting better.” 

“Like the people in Arkham?”

Martha nods again. “That’s right. That’s why your dad and I put so much money into Arkham, and Blackgate, and the veteran centers, and the juvenile centers—those are the ones for kids, remember?—because with it, people can get help. People that wouldn’t have gotten it otherwise.”

Bruce turns to him, then. “Like your friends from the army, Al?” 

Alfred nods. He didn’t speak much about his time in the special forces—much of his story wasn’t his to share, and certainly not for such young ears to hear. But Bruce had always been curious, always been keen to learn. He was equally as keen to help. 

Martha shines Bruce that winning smile of hers once more, and Bruce smiles too, dimples and all. 

Then, Bruce’s eyes widened, his mouth forming an “O” shape. Alfred can practically see the lightbulb going off.

“Is dad a Vampire too?”

Martha laughed. “No, sweetheart. Your father is a Dhampir—a made Vampire. He was born human, but we went through a ceremony to make him a Dhampir.”

Alfred could see the gears turning in the young master’s head. 

Martha smoothed her fingers through her son's ebony hair. “It’s a confusing concept, I know. I’ll make sure to explain it better when you’re older—you’ll understand it better then, anyway. “

Bruce frowns, then. 

“That’s just something adults say when they don’t wanna talk about stuff.”

Alfred can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, then, covering his mouth belatedly. Martha laughs with much more gusto, shoulders shaking.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, shaking his head in fond exasperation. “What ever will we do with such a bright young lad as you?”

Bruce grins, and eyes twinkling. Alfred can see the beginnings of his secondary incisors forming—the ones all vampires have, the ones that extend from the gums above the usual set, to give them a firmer grip on their meal. 

Alfred smiles back. Hoping and praying that Bruce’s smile never faded, and the joy in his bright, blue eyes never dulls.

* * *

Then, two years later, when Alfred looks into his young ward’s eyes, he has to stop himself from sobbing. 

There is no light in those eyes. No joy. No life. 

Sitting in the police station, soaked with rain and the drying blood of his parents, Alfred cursed the world for robbing this young man of his soul. 

Blood. Bruce had always seen blood as something that sustained life—it ran through everyone’s veins and arteries and capillaries, carrying nutrients and oxygen. It was something Vampires and Dhampires needed to consume—along with small amounts of meat and fruits and vegetables—something good.

Now, he would see it as something vile. Something evil. He would look at it and see himself, at age eight, hands covered in it. A constant reminder that the two beings he loved most in the old now lay in an eternal rest six feet under the earth. 

He vowed that Bruce Thomas Wayne would never see himself as evil. Not if Alfred Pennyworth had anything to say about it.

* * *

Just when Barry Allen thinks he’s seen it all, the universe decides to throw something else at him to completely throw him for a loop. 

The day started off well-enough: Bruce and Barry had been in one of the Watchtower’s labs analysing some samples they’d both lifted from similar crime scenes in their respective cities. Two in Central City, and three in Gotham. 

Aside from photos taken by the CCPD—he always dreaded the ones from the morgue, and this time there were several casualties—Barry had brought up a scrap of a strange cloth, a strand of hair (with the follicle attached! Bingo!) and a very unusual knife for examination. Bruce had looked at the blade—a crude weapon made from an odd silver-looking metal-like it had committed some great crime against humanity, but had been clinical as always in his examinations. 

Analysing the weapon told them the blade was made almost entirely of silver.

Judging by the tyre tracks Barry had poured over, they seemed to be using semi-trucks exclusively, so Bruce had “borrowed” (read: hacked) the CCTV feeds within a ten block radius of both locations. They had spent the next two hours flicking through the mostly useless video files until they struck gold—well, silver, actually. They’d found where the perps had gotten their silver knives from; a delivery truck that parked in an alley nearby five minutes before the murders at all three scenes. The footage showed someone opening the sliding door at the back of the truck and arming the perpetrators. 

From what he could see, there were plenty of knives. And swords. Some arrowheads, too—and were those silver knuckles? Judging by the stacks of crates behind their arms dealer, marked with the silhouette of a rifle, Barry guessed silver bullets were on the menu, too. 

From what Barry could gather, it was a cult. Fabulous. Amazing. Absolutely fan-freakin’-tastic. 

The operation itself was practically flawless. After figuring out who the cult’s next targets were—a Gotham factory worker, her girlfriend and the worker’s twin toddlers (Barry had nearly been sick thinking about a cult coming after two innocent kids)—they’d alerted GCPD and CCPD about the operation and sent them off to raid arms caches Nightwing and Red Robin had found. Bruce had sent Batwoman to Central City, and left Black Bat to serve as backup for the GCPD operation. 

Barry had briefly wondered whether the girls would need more backup, and he voiced his concerns to Bruce, who simply raised an eyebrow and asked, “what, you don’t think they can handle themselves?”

Barry had grinned and shaken his head. “No, they kick ass, I’m just being cautious. You must be rubbing off on me, Bruce.”

Which leads them to now, at approximately 1:00 a.m., on a chilling Friday morning. Bruce stood on the a escape of the apartment building the perps were planning to hit, overseeing an alley they were likely to use as a drop point, while Barry sat on one across the road, overseeing another. 

Batman signals to him from across the road. 

They're here. 

There are four perps coming out of the truck—Batman had said earlier that there were two for the worker, one of the girlfriend, and the other for the kids. Barry wasn’t sure how he could be sure of their plan, but he’d long since learned not to question the guy. The cultists are armed to the teeth and armoured up—a strange mixture of modern, almost militaristic, combat armour, steel plating, and monk-like robes. They donned identical black helmets that covered the entirety of their heads and shielded their faces with opaque visors. Modified motorbike helmets, they look like.

Batman had alerted the women and their kids and advised them to leave ten minutes beforehand—he wanted to make sure it seemed like they were home, he’d said—and had a GCPD officer escort them to the precinct. Now, they just had to enter the building, ambush the group and detain them for questioning. Easy, right?

Barry should know by now that things were rarely that simple. 

Everything went to shit when the only conscious one of the cultists had called for backup and sent what must have been fifty guys after the two of them. 

So, they spent the next twenty minutes sprinting to a less-populated area, trying not to die as the mad bastards shot at them (Barry was right about the silver bullets, he’d make sure to analyse those later) from their cars and motorbikes with reckless abandon. Barry is grateful Bruce had his bike, because he doubted he’d outpace them otherwise. 

They were forced to a stop when they reached a dead-end—Gotham harbour. 

Excellent. Great. Neat-O. 

The paths and nearby stores were deserted, and there weren’t any houses for at least a block—Barry checked personally just to be sure. They’d make their stand here. 

Bruce turned his bike to face their attackers, who were quickly gaining on them, and gave Barry an absolutely mad look. 

“Br—Batman, you’re not seriously…”

Bruce revs his engine and shoots towards the oncoming cars in some ridiculous, high-stakes game of chicken.

Barry is frozen in a mixture of awe and horror. Just meters from the first car, he skids his bike abruptly to a halt and launches himself at the car, grappling to the roof and blowing out a tyre with a Batarang. The car careens sideways, smashing into a biker and crashing into the corner of a brick storefront. 

He hopes they have good insurance. 

Barry springs into action—disarming one of the guys on foot and making use of his belt to tie him and another guy to a light-post.

An arrow whizzes past Barry’s head as he lands a kick on one of the cultists, shattering a window behind him. It'd not any ordinary arrow, it's a damn crossbow bolt. He speeds over and clothes-lines the guy before he could knock another one. Oliver would have a field day with this.

Bruce leaps over Barry and rugby tackles a cultist to the ground, and she cries out in pain as the two of them topple into another cultist, sending all three of them to the ground. Bruce got up first and kicks another guy’s legs out from under him before he could even lift his sword. 

Eventually, after a lot of dodging, running, jumping and punching, the last man fell after a swift right hook from Barry. Without needing a cue, he zips into a hardware store for some rope, leaving a note and a stack of cash on the counter—Barry is grateful for Bruce’s insistence on everyone carrying cash whenever possible. He tied as many of them together as possible before cutting the rope with a discarded Batarang and rounding on the next group. 

In his periphery, he saw Bruce scouting the perimeter, returning once with two unconscious cultists before walking back to where he’d been earlier. 

Barry restrains the last of the unbound cultists, using the last of the rope to secure them further, and then he goes about gathering their weapons—silver knives, swords, compound bows and arrowheads, crossbows and bolts, guns and bullets—and dumping them unceremoniously into a large dumpster for transport, moving the dumpster into the middle of the road. 

Barry turned to face Bruce, hoping to at least get a hi-five out of the guy for a job well-done.

He wasn’t expecting to see the man doubled over, shoulder-to-chest with another cultist (where did she come from!? Are there more nearby?), her left hand splayed across his back, with his body concealing her right arm.

Oh. Oh no. 

Barry was running before he even registered what was happening. He clothes-lines the woman and sends her flying backwards. Barry whipps around and grabs Bruce by the shoulders. He looks paler than usual, and it's taking all of Barry’s strength to hold him up. That was when he noticed the bright, silver knife sticking out from his left side between two of his ribs— _(right below his heart, oh good God)_ —and the blood seeping out of him like water from a tap. 

Barry felt his heart skip a beat. 

He sinks them to a sitting position and Barry reaches to activate his League communicator, but a groan from Bruce stops him. 

“Silver… Out… Get it—out…” 

_'What? Silver?'_

“Batman, you’re delirious—you know as well as I do that if I take that thing out—”

Bruce doubles over into a coughing fit. Blood dribbled down his chin as he sucked in deep breaths. Shit, if he was coughing blood, it was likely there was lung damage. 

“Barry,” Batman managed in a deep growl, “I’m… Silver hurts vampires…" He hisses a breath through gritted teeth. "Get it out of me.”

_‘Bruce is a vampire? Vampires are real? What in the fresh hell?!’_

Barry doesn’t have time to think about that now—his friend is hurting _(dying, Bruce is dying)_ —so, going against all his medical knowledge, he grabs the hilt of the blade and rips it out of Bruce’s side. 

Bruce cries out, too weak to suppress it—his jaw unhinged in raw agony. Barry catches sight of the sharpened incisors protruding from his gums, and he swears he sees another set of them retracted into his gums. 

_‘Christ on a bike.’_

Bruce grips Barry’s left shoulder with his right hand, to steady himself, while his left grapples absently at his wound. 

Barry drops the blade like it was a hot coal. 

Bruce grunted, twisting his torso to face Barry, while his legs remained out to his side. “Blood—Barry—blood in my belt… Left side.”

‘Blood in his belt? Is he seriously worried about whatever he keeps in there? At a time like this!’

“Batman—”

“I need blood to heal from the silver—ah, _son of a bitch.”_

Oh. Right. The vampire thing.

“Which one?” He asks, looking down to his blood-soaked belt—good lord, he hopes that damage isn’t permanent. 

Bruce grunts and twists his torso, exposing more of his back to Barry. 

“Above the hip. Second from the back.” He grunts, blinking slowly, skin pallid. 

He reaches into the pouch and retrieves two small vials—about the size of Barry’s thumbs—of bright, oxygenated blood, labelled with a “D”. 

“Diana’s,” Bruce manages. “She said I should… Bring blood with me on… On operations for basically this exact scenario. She offered to be a donor.”

Barry silences the part of him that feels hurt, because _of course_ Bruce would trust Diana with this—they’re thick as thieves—and uncaps one of the vials, handing it to Bruce. He tosses it back like it’s a shot, and gestured to Barry for the other one. 

He looks down to inspect Bruce’s wound, separating their bodies slightly to get a better look. 

The bleeding has stopped, and the beginnings of a scab is already forming. Then, after a few seconds of waiting, the upper layers of the skin begin knitting themselves back together, slowly but surely. The thin sheets latticing together in a way Barry has never seen before. Not an immediate fix, but he's no longer in serious danger.

Thank God.

“Good Lord, Batman,” Barry breathes, looking up at his friend, and delighting to see colour was already returning to him, if sluggishly. “You’re—you’re okay, now?” He asks, uncertain. 

Bruce nods, sitting up further, progressively leaning less of his weight on Barry.

“Getting there,” he grunts. 

A million things race through his head, most of them juvenile and situationally inappropriate. 

“Any idea who these freak shows are?” He asks instead.

Bruce nods. “I haven’t seen this group before, but they’re obviously some kind of Hunters. They exist on every continent in some capacity—though they’re very much frowned upon nowadays...”

Barry hopes he doesn’t look too dumbstruck. 

God, he'd not the right person for this: he needs Clark, or Diana, or J’onn, or even Shayera—hard-headed as she may be sometimes—someone who knew how to talk to Bruce about shit that actually matters. 

“They were after me,” he says finally. “That one,” he nods again to the cultist behind Barry, “she—before she stabbed me, she told me that she’d ‘finally gotten me’. Who’s to say they hadn’t been focusing on Gotham just to get my attention? Draw me out?” 

Barry says nothing—what _could_ he say?

He rests a hand loosely on Bruce’s shoulder, giving him room to shift away if he wanted to. He tries his communicator, but the thing's fried. Awesome. So he couldn’t have called for help earlier anyway. 

So, with nothing else to do, they sit in silence for a while, waiting for Bruce’s wounds to heal to an acceptable degree. Barry watches in wonder as the stab wound knits itself almost completely closed, leaving a garish white-purple scar between his ribs.

Bruce purses his lips, eyes trained on the asphalt. “Is… Barry, is me being a Vampire…”

Bruce never was very good with words—but he understands the question. Barry can’t imagine how difficult this must be for him: to be on death’s door and the only means of salvation being to out yourself as a _fucking vampire_. Hell, until five minutes ago, he didn’t know vampires existed at all, and Bruce had probably wanted to keep it that way until his dying breath. 

“Yeah, man, it’s cool—no issue at all. Kinda melted my brain for a minute there, but it’s not a problem. I promise I won’t tell a soul,” he said, rapid-fire, wanting to dispel any distress as soon as possible. “I’m sorry you… Well, I’m sorry I found out this way. I’m sorry you didn’t have a choice, y’know?”

Bruce nods numbly, lips pursed. 

“I mean—look,” he turns Bruce towards him, so their knees are touching and Bruce has no choice but to look straight at him. “I know we aren’t the best of friends—we’re not as close as you are with Diana or Clark— but this was a shitty situation, and I’m sorry you had to go through it.”

Bruce remains impassive, but attentive.

“I do consider you a friend and a brother-in-arms, so if there is anything I can do—anything at all, like taking down some cultist weirdos—just sing out, and,” Barry grins, “I’ll be there in a flash.”

Bruce exhales sharply through his nose, and he imagines he’s rolling his eyes behind the cowl. 

“And if you ever want to share anything, I’m always here,” he adds, because he’s a scientist, dammit, and this shit is _fascinating_ , but also because he wants to support his friend in any way possible.

“Thank you, Barry,” he says finally. He’s—well, he’s not smiling, exactly, because _Batman_ doesn’t smile, but he’s as close to smiling as one can get without actually smiling. 

Barry grins even wider. 

Then, Bruce’s comm blares to life. He could vaguely make out Batwoman’s voice.

Bruce sits up further and relays their position and a very brief account of what just went down, pointedly leaving out the part where he nearly fucking died. Barry will be sure to mention that to J’onn later anyway—wait, did J’onn know he was a vampire? Surely, considering he’s been inside Bruce’s head before, but who knows. Oh boy, that would be really awkward if he didn’t know. He hoped Martians didn’t hold any ill will against vampires. Would he even know what a vampire is?

And, oh, yeah, he’d have to find away to sneak Hal fifty bucks, since he’d been right about “Spooky” being a vampire—

“Barry.”

Barry nearly screams. 

Bruce is looking at him intently, jaw set, right hand gripping Barry’s shoulder firmly.

“Are you alright?”

Barry blinks. Oh, he’d probably spaced out and scared the crap out of Bruce. 

“Yeah—all good. Just. A lot of thoughts… You know how us Speedsters get.”

“Hn.”

Eloquent as always, Bruce. 

Bruce’s comm activates again, and Barry decides to scout around once more, do a final check.

_(Dammit, he can’t believe he missed that one cultist—just one person he missed and Bruce nearly—)_

As he leaves, he hears Bruce speak briefly to both Agent A—Alfred, a.k.a, King of the Cookies—and Black Bat, commending her on a job well done. 

Barry weaves through the streets, picking up a stray bullet or crossbow bolt here and there, leaving apology sticky-notes (pre-written—Diana’s idea), and scanning the area. He circles back, satisfied, and sees Bruce sitting on the hood of one of the cars, typing something into his phone. Barry joins him, waving at a pale, elderly woman who’d ducked her head out of her window, two storeys up, and a young African American kid chilling on his fire apartment’s escape, next door. The two look completely unperturbed at the literal piles of bound people in the middle of the street. Like it was any other Friday morning.

Gotham City—never fails to disappoint. 

Then, there’s a thunderous noise and a far-away burst of light as Clark enters the atmosphere and descends upon the city. 

The two look up in relief—if there were any lingering cultists watching from afar, Superman would be their cue to get the hell outta dodge. Plus, it’d be much easier to deal with the unconscious forms of the cultists and their absurd amount of weapons with their resident skyscraper-lifting alien. 

“Dibs not carrying that,” he jokes, pointing to the dumpster full of glittering weapons. 

Bruce gave a long-suffering sigh that bordered strangely on a chuckle. “Well, _i’m_ not doing it. Fucking silver,” he grumbles. 

Barry laughs. He laughs so hard he doubles over, has stopped making noise, was struggling for breath, and probably looked like he was going into cardiac arrest. A nearby civilian eyes him warily, phone extended. Bruce brings a hand to rest on Barry’s shoulder, and, amazingly, he starts laughing too. 

* * *

Artemis’ knee hurts like a motherfucker. One of the cultists had gotten a good hit on her with a kick—and then she’d landed on it weird when she’d somersaulted off the hood of one of their cars. The several more minutes of manoeuvring through opponents and taking out their archers and shooters had taken a toll, too. Hers was the only injury of any note, which had her kind of peeved, but whatever. 

She’s surprised Dick hadn’t sustained any serious damage, considering the brunt of the attackers seemed to be targeting him exclusively. They must have it in for the Bats—which was just what they needed, more enemies. 

Tonight was an interesting experience, to say the least. She, Connor, Dick and Zatanna had been sent to Gotham to deal with an up-and-coming cult that originated somewhere north of New Jersey. The rest of The Team, along with The Outsiders, had been split between several major cities across the state.

From what she’d heard, Batman and Flash had taken out a core element of the cult just two nights ago, right here in Gotham; the theory was that they were trying to establish some kind of stronghold here and then expand further. Gotham seemed to attract the worst of the worst—which was a shame, since it would otherwise be a pretty stellar city. 

When she heard the rumble of Batman’s car—which wasn’t entirely unexpected, considering they were in Gotham—she rose from her seat on one of the wooden benches and made her way over to where Connor was, at the center of the plaza. Zatanna stood and followed suit. 

It was odd, however, that there had been no notice via the comms. Though, it's entirely possible he’d been in a dogfight of his own and his comm had taken damage. Wouldn’t be the first time. 

Dick jogged over from where he’d been speaking to a pair of Gotham police officers (after taking a selfie for the GCPD’s Instagram page—which Artemis followed, as did half the Justice League). 

Connor narrows his eyes and cocks his head in confusion, eyes trained on the general direction of the approaching car. “That’s not Batman.”

Artemis whips her head around. “What?”

Connor blinks at her, brows furrowed. “It’s not Batman’s heartbeat—it’s different. I don’t know this one.”

Well, If it wasn’t Batman in the Batmobile, who the hell was it?

Dick groans, dragging a hand down his face. Artemis and Zatanna shared a look. 

“Nightwing?” Zatanna asks.

“I know who it is,” he sighs. 

The way Dick had answered, Artemis knew that was all they’d get out of him. 

He’s not worried, so Artemis isn’t going to worry either. She walks over to a large, brick-lined planter and sits down with a sigh, bending her unhurt leg under her, and letting her injured leg hang freely. Zatanna and Connor follow, taking a seat either side of her on the edge of the garden planter, beneath the outer leaves of an oak tree. 

The car comes into view as it turns a corner, and Dick waves it down, walking towards the roadside. 

“You can recognise Batman’s heartbeat?” Artemis asks Connor as they watch Dick approach the Batmobile. 

Connor shrugs. “He’s around a lot, especially lately, now that we can go up to the Watchtower, and he’s part of the League again,” he offers in explanation. Then, “he’s one of our mentors, why wouldn’t I recognise his heartbeat?”

“I don’t know, just curious, I guess,” Artemis answers. 

“Is that… Weird?”

“What? No, dude. It’s unusual, sure—because superhearing isn’t exactly common—but it's not a bad thing, Connor.”

Connor nods, looking significantly less like a kicked puppy. 

“I think it’s cool,” Zatanna supplies, “it’s good to have something grounding.”

Connor nods again, turning to face Dick and the car. 

Artemis opens her out to speak again—why would Batman’s heartbeat, of all things, be something grounding for Connor?—but then the Batmobile’s doors open, and not Batman steps out. They’re greeted by the chorus of the Spice Girls’ “Wannabe” blaring from the car’s speakers, and not Batman humming along to the lyrics.

It's Red Hood. 

She knows of Red Hood’s less-than-stellar reputation: he's an auxiliary member of the Bat Clan, (the others had taken to calling them the “Bat Fam” behind Dick’s back, which Artemis is greatly amused by), operating separately from the rest, kicking ass without the direct oversight of Batman. He's a recent arrival to the city - rumours place his first appearance at about a year ago - but already he'd made strides in pushing back the minor crimelords and making himself known around East End in particular. She also knows Batman wouldn’t allow such a person to roam free without good reason, so she’d offer up as much trust as she could muster. After all, if _Batman_ trusted this guy, to any degree, then he must be doing something right. 

There were also the rumours she’d heard about him from the streets and vague chatter amongst the League. Some said he was a ghost, others said he was a demon. There were those kinds of rumours surrounding every Bat - the big man especially - but Artemis is wary of these ones. Most agreed he was probably a human who’d just had enough of Gotham’s bullshit and decided to take matters into his own hands.

Red Hood saunters over to where Nightwing stands with his arms folded over his chest.

“Nightwing,” Hood greets, nodding his head once, the way you'd greet an acquaintance after a few weeks of not seeing one another. “Been a while.” Then, he nods in Artemis’ direction. “Your team?”

“Some of them, yeah, but—”

Hood stalks over to the group, who’d since gathered together. “Red Hood,” he introduces, still a few paces away, “I work with the Bats sometimes, when the old man isn’t being a total ass. Well, no more of an ass than usual, I guess.” 

Artemis snorts violently, belatedly covering her mouth. 

Connor looks kind of pissed—for a reason Artemis can’t place—but remains silently frowning. 

“Tigress, right?” He asks her. 

“That’s me,” she says, extending a hand amicably. “I know—sounds like a stripper name, I’ve already got an earful from Nightwing.”

Hood laughs - the sound distorted and electronic - and shakes her hand. 

“This is Superboy and Zatanna,” she introduces.

Nightwing clears his throat, laying a hand on Hood's shoulder, “does Batman know you’re driving his car?”

A snort. “Nope,” he says, popping the “p”.

Dick holds his head in his hands. Zatanna looks like she's going to faint. Artemis suddenly had a new favourite Gothamite. 

“Seriously? Do you even know what’s happening? Batman might need that!”

“Of course I know what’s going on, dickhead, it’s my goddamn city too. And fuck him. I left him my bike, he’ll be fine,” Hood waved a dismissive hand at Dick’s exasperated expression. “Big Blue’s floatin’ around here somewhere anyway,” he adds.

“Yeah, but, you know what he’s like, Hood,” Dick runs a hand through his hair. “Plus, Agent A isn’t gonna be happy.” 

Hood shrugs. 

Connor sits up abruptly, but remains silent—Artemis has learned that means he's heard someone approaching, but has decided they’re not a threat. 

Artemis hears fabric rustle somewhere above her, and she looks up to see a figure descending from the sky. 

“Graduated from stealing the hubcaps, I see?” Superman asks.

Artemis and Zatanna share another look. 

Hood breaths a laugh. “He told you about that? Oh, what am I saying, of course he told you. You’re… _You...”_

Superman raises an eyebrow, confused. 

Dick kicks Red Hood in the calf and sends him an absolutely withering look. 

“So you just—you _stole_ the batmobile?” Zatanna asks. 

Hood nods. “Pretty much, yeah.”

Oh yeah. This crazy s.o.b is absolutely Artemis’ favourite of the Bats. She apologises internally to Barbara, the previous favourite. 

“You know, ten-to-one, Batman would let you drive it if you actually asked him,” Superman says. 

“Christ, you guys are acting like I cut his legs out from under him. I left him my bike, and he’s got his grapple gun. Hell, worst-case scenario he calls you,” Hood jabs a finger at Superman. “Let the overgrown mosquito handle his damn self.” 

Dick chokes on his spit.

Superman just sighs, shaking his head. 

Artemis catches Connor’s gaze. ‘Overgrown mosquito?’ She mouths. Connor just shrugs—though she gets the feeling he knows something she doesn't. 

“That goes for you, too, Twilight,” Hood says to Dick, who splutters again. “I don’t wanna have to be covering your ass with all these Cultists around. There’s fuckin’ silver everywhere, too.”

“What’s the deal with all the silver, anyway?” Artemis asks, and the two Bats turn to her. “Pardon my potty mouth, Superman, but I nearly got shot in the ass with a silver bullet. Care to share with the class?”

“What—what are you even doing here?” Dick asks—and wow, that change of subject was not subtle at all, Grayson. 

Hood turns to him and spreads his arms. 

“Hey, I live here too, so when I saw you guys trashing ass downtown, I thought I'd come lend a hand. Considering how fucked up the old man was the other night, I figured I would make for better backup.”

Dick snorts. “Yeah, well, thanks for nothing, got here a little late.”

Superman shakes his head, then. “No, actually, he did a fair bit. I saw he’d taken out the snipers on the roof two blocks down when I was flying over. Noticed a few more guys down the road—” he turns to Hood, then, expression unreadable, “—it looks like you hit them with the car?”

Hood waves a hand. “Just nicked ‘em.” 

Dick looks like he’s going to say something, but then their comms blare to life, and Batman’s voice comes through the speaker. Transport for the cultists was on its way. 

Hood claps his hands together. “Well, that’s my cue. Nice meeting you all, but i’mma bounce.”

Dick looks—upset, hurt, frustrated, all three?—but doesn’t object. 

“Don’t die on your way back,” he says. 

Hood throws him a set of keys—the set to Batman’s car—and shoots him a pair of finger guns. 

Zatanna waves, clearly weirded out by the whole encounter. 

“How are you getting back?” Superman asks. 

“There’s these things attached to my torso,” he gestures to himself, “called legs. They let me walk around and kick the shit outta people.”

Superman raises an eyebrow.

“Well, if you’re gonna split, I suggest you do it quick,” Connor says, “I can hear the carriers coming now.”

Hood nods, claps Dick on the shoulder once more, and then he’s gone. 

Like, fucking gone. How _do_ they do that?

Zatanna turns to Dick. “Are you sure you guys aren’t magical? That isn’t normal.” 

Dick just grins, pearly whites glinting in the night. And, Artemis isn’t really one to judge—she’d seen some weird shit in her life—but she couldn’t help but notice… Dick’s canines are awfully sharp. She could have sworn she’s seen another set of them through the years. Must be some weird genetic thing.

She shakes her head. She of all people should know not to question Gotham. 


	2. “You smiled at me and really eased the pain.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with rain._  
>  _Sunny, you smiled at me and really eased the pain._  
>  _The dark days are gone, and the bright days are here,_  
>  _My sunny one shines so sincere._  
>  _Sunny, one so true, I love you.”_  
>  —Sunny, Boney M. 
> 
> This chapter’s probably really short but I figured posting something is better than nothing. Call this an intermission I guess.
> 
> _Also, AO3 really fucked up the formatting for this chapter! It looked fine after I submitted it! It was only while perusing this chapter in preparation for completing chapter 3 did I notice... Must be because i’m Using my iPad..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know how you feel about the characterisation—I feel I’ve got a handle on Alfred, Selina and Cassandra, but let me know if you think any character is, well, out of character. Comics are expensive (especially in Australia, or at least my part of Sydney) so I’m very behind with physical copies, but I do try and stay up-to-date electronically. There are a lot of comics and a lot of continuities—here, I’m trying to stay true to timeline established in Young Justice (except for where I explicitly mention otherwise, like in some of the end notes). This means that: 
> 
> I plan to write more involving the BatFamily set in the Young Justice timeline where I’ll basically throw most of the established canon out the window because the timeline’s pretty dodgy IMO.

_“Dad?”_

_Thomas startled, eyes flicking up from his stack of documents._

_Bruce’s head peeked out from behind the threshold of the study, body half-hidden behind the door-frame. He was slight, even for an eight-year-old. Ebony hair stuck out in every direction, a clear indication that he hadn’t been awake long._

_“Bruce,” he begins warmly, removing his thin-rimmed reading glasses and setting them down next to his papers. His eyes burned—he’d been sitting for quite some time. “What’s the matter, chum?” He asked, checking his wristwatch._

_1:03 a.m. Oh boy. Martha was going to murder him._

_A small, shuddering breath reeled Thomas’ attention back to his son. He was standing in the study, now, allowing Thomas to see his reddened eyes and nose. Another nightmare._

_He rose from his seat and made his way across the room in three long strides, wrapping Bruce in a firm hug. Bruce clung to him like he was a life preserver, burying his face in the crook of Thomas’ neck. His cheeks were still damp from tears._

_“Hey, hey, it’s okay pal. I’ve got you now. You’re alright, chum.”_

_Bruce trembled in his arms. Shit, this had been a bad one. Did he cry out? Had Thomas been so absorbed in his work he had let his son ride out the worst part of a nightmare alone?_

_Bruce breathed deeply—four seconds inwards, four seconds outwards—just as Thomas had taught him._

_“I’m sorry for interrupting you,” Bruce mumbled._

_“Hey, it’s not a problem, chum. I should have gone to bed a while ago anyway. What’s the matter?”_

_He hiccuped, arms tightening around Thomas’ midsection. “I—I had another bad dream…”_

_Thomas kissed his temple. “It’s okay, chum. I’ve got you. You know that those dreams—they cant hurt you, right? They feel real, but when you wake up, you’re safe.”_

_Bruce sniffled. “I know…”_

_Thomas detached himself slightly, just enough to look his son in the eyes—he’d been crying a lot._

_“But even though those dreams aren’t real, even though they can’t hurt you, it’s okay to be afraid. Fear is normal. In small amounts, fear is a good thing.”_

_This was a lesson Thomas had made sure to drill into his head whenever Bruce had these nightmares, or suffered an anxiety attack. It was a lesson he wished he had been taught at Bruce’s age, but alas._

_“These dreams, they’re your brain’s way of working through bad experiences. Of healing.”_

_Bruce sniffled again, but he seemed to be calming down, his breaths coming in deeper and stronger. Thank the Lord._

_“But if you ever get scared—like you did just now, remember you can always come to me. Or your mom. Or Alfred. We’ll always be here for you, chum.”_

_Bruce nodded, and Thomas drew him back into an embrace; one arm slung around his waist, and the other resting against the back of his head._

_“Do you… Do you want to talk about it?”_

_Thomas cringed internally. He was a certified Doctor, co-CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company, and a prominent member of Gotham’s elite—why in the world was conversation with his_ _son, of all people, so difficult?_

_“Was it the bats, again?”_

_It had been a few months since Bruce had fallen down that well, and stumbled into the bat-infested cave system below the manor. He sometimes woke up screaming, because of that afternoon._

_Bruce sniffled and drew backwards slightly, still in Thomas’ arms. He opened and closed his mouth, hands fidgeting._

_“No. It… I dreamed we got killed… All of us.”_

_Oh._

_“It was… Hunters came for us. They killed us and then they burned our house down and then—” Bruce inhaled sharply. “Then the Court of Owls got our bodies and—” he inhaled again, eyes misting over._

_Fuck._

_“They—” another hiccuping sob “—they blamed the murder on Alfie and the other staff, and they turned you and me and mom into… Into Talons… And...”_

_Thomas brushed a thumb over his son’s cheek. “You don’t have to go on, son. It’s okay.”_

_Perhaps all the bedtime stories about the Court weren’t such a great idea. On one hand, they were filling his child with even more paranoia and worry than he already had. On the other…_

_Well. He and Martha had left the Court of Owls when Bruce was five, unwilling to drag him into their dark world, more than they already had. They’d warned the Kanes away from them, too, back when Kate had been conceived - from what he’d heard, the Kanes had been left alone by the Court, though, that could change any second._

_No one left the Court. Not alive. Thomas feared it was only a matter of time before the Court finally came for their heads - or their bodies, as Bruce feared._

_Bruce took a fortifying breath, but remained silent._

_After a few moments of silence—of Thomas having not the slightest clue what to do—he was struck with a moment of clarity._

_“Would you like a song?”_

_Bruce’s eyes brightened. “Yes, please.”_

_“Any requests? Should I get my guitar?”_

_Bruce pursed his lips, eyes falling to the ground. Thomas briefly wondered if he’d upset him, but then Bruce raised his head, eyes bright._

_“Sunny? That Boney M song?”_

_Thomas’ eyes crinkled with the intensity of his smile._

_“Good choice,” says another voice, nearly sending Thomas into cardiac arrest._

_They two of them looked up to see Alfred—in his night-clothes and slippers—standing in the threshold of the study._

_Alfred’s face was a mask of annoyance—arms crossed, eyebrow arched—but the slight upturn of his lips gave him away._

_“Miss Martha is going to hand you up by your toenails, Mister Thomas,”_

_“‘Mr Thomas’,” Bruce mimicked in a posh English accent, “he’s like that character from Narnia.”_

_“The faun?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Goodness - I knew my legs were a bit hairy, but I didn’t think they were that bad…”_

_Even Alfred huffed a breath of laughter, at that one. Bruce covered his mouth with a hand to muffle the violent fit of giggles._

_“Well, come on then,” Thomas says, taking Bruce’s hand. “I’ll get my guitar and then we’ll head to your room. We’ll kick those nightmares into next week.”_

_Bruce giggled quietly._

_“Now get going, or Miss Martha will have a fit,” Alfred said, though he wasn’t nearly as annoyed as he pretended to be._

_“Good night, Alf,” Bruce said._

_“‘Good morning’, technically,” Thomas corrected, receiving a withering look from Alfred._

_“Good morning, Alfred,” Bruce giggled, tugging Thomas down the hall. He sent the butler a half-hearted wave, currently more concerned with remembering the right guitar chords for Sunny._

* * *

Alfred finds Bruce in the sunroom. 

He’d dressed warmly, in a black turtleneck, grey sweatpants and black woollen socks—Alfred despaired over the lack of colour in the man’s wardrobe. He nursed a cup of tea in his left hand, while balancing his Wayne Enterprises laptop on his right knee, typing furiously with his right hand. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and Alfred couldn’t help but think of Thomas, hunched over stacks of paper from work in the small hours of the morning, wearing that same look. 

Beside Bruce on the plush, white couch, lay Cassandra, with her head resting on her father’s left thigh. She’s flipping through a picture book Timothy had purchased, mostly as a joke. She wore grey yoga pants, a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and obnoxiously colourful socks, a gift from Barbara. 

It warms Alfred to his core, to see the man he considered a son lounging about with a daughter of his own. A girl who had lived through hell and came out stronger for it. 

The young Dhampir had grown considerably more comfortable with physical contact—a remarkable feat, considering the only contact she’d known previously was the fists and feet and teeth and steel of her opponents. She’d been trained to know only violence, death and pain. It hadn’t been that way when she’d first arrived, that was for certain. While she clearly trusted Bruce from the get-go, it had taken her a while to feel comfortable at the manor—to feel comfortable _living_ instead of simply _existing_. 

Alfred sees Bruce look down at his daughter with fondness—a fondness Alfred was afraid he’d lost in that alleyway—and swallows the lump in his throat.

“Master Bruce, Miss Cassandra,” he greets, “the Watchtower called—they’ve requested a meeting to get everyone up to speed about the Hunters. Preferably in person, but I’m sure a video call would suffice.”

Bruce downs the rest of his tea like one would a shot of alcohol, and sets the cup down next to his laptop. 

“It’s fine Alfred. I should head up in person.”

He and Cassandra rise to their feet almost in sync. It's almost eerie.

“How much should we share—I understand outing yourself as a Vampire might be…”

“If it comes to that, I’ll run it by everyone else first. They deserve a say.”

“Of course, sir. Regarding dinner this evening: Miss Barbara sends her apologies, and her regards, Miss Stephanie, however, will be joining us, as will Master Timothy and Master Dick.”

He sees Bruce smile, then. A rare thing, though becoming considerably more common, nowadays.

“Loud,” Cassandra states, nose scrunched slightly. Alfred had seen the expression enough to recognise it wasn’t one of disgust. 

“Lastly, Miss Selina rang in earlier,” Alfred says. “She said she’s been in contact with some of her people who might know how the Hunters are supplying themselves. She said she’ll pop in later this afternoon to fill you in on the details personally—she’s on her way here now, sir.” 

“Auntie Cat knows things,” Cassandra nods resolutely. “She has eyes and ears in Gotham.” 

“Indeed she does,” Alfred says. “Selina’s networks throughout Gotham will prove vital in ridding the city of this organisation. Will she be joining you at the Watchtower, sir?”

Bruce stilled, contemplative. “Probably. She’s come here with intel. Though we could set her up with a holo...”

“Auntie Cat is nice. I like Auntie Cat. League should like her too.”

“I’m afraid that 'liking her' and 'trusting her' are two separate ballparks, Miss Cassandra. Though, with her place within Batman Incorporated, I’m sure the League will understand.”

Bruce only hums in response, making his way out of the room and towards the study. 

Cassandra and Alfred share a look—and it never fails to throw Alfred for a loop just how much this girl _knows_. 

Bruce and Selina’s relationship is, well, odd. Their romantic involvement was something even the kids knew about, vaguely. Their “on-again-off-again” relationship—Alfred refuses to call it “friends with benefits”, as Master Dick does—was both a blessing and a curse. It’s intensity had waned considerably in recent months, meaning there are less late-night rendezvous on Gotham rooftops or one of Selina’s apartments for Alfred to ignore and cleanse his mind of. 

She pops in at odd hours for the strangest, but certainly not unpleasant, reasons. To raid the fridge and the pantry in the small hours of the morning and blame it on one of the kids. To attempt to burgle Alfred The Cat away, only to be chased around the manor by Miss Stephanie and Miss Cassandra. One evening, while Bruce was at the Watchtower for a meeting, Alfred found her rearranging Bruce’s wardrobe, slotting in a few items Alfred wasn’t sure she’d acquired legally. Alfred had said nothing and delighted in Bruce’s utter confusion when he’d been sifting through it the next morning. 

Cassandra broke Alfred’s train of thought by taking his hand. Alfred smiled at her, and she returned it in kind, if more subdued. The two of them followed Bruce into the study, watched Bruce turn the hands of the grandfather clock to open the passageway, and descended the stairs into the cave. 

Master Timothy sat at the Batcomputer speaking quietly to Miss Barbara over the communicator. Bruce wordlessly veers off to go change in the curtained-off alcoves, while Alfred and Cassandra approach the computer. 

“Miss Selina will be accompanying Master Bruce to the Watchtower for a briefing.”

Tim's eyes bug out of his head and he makes a series of choked-off noises. 

“You, however, will be staying here,” Alfred adds.

Tim makes a poor attempt of masking his disappointment. 

“Alfred,” Tim begins, rising from his seat. “These people are killing the supernatural and magical left and right, and any humans they come into contact with.”

“I realise, Master Tim. All the more reason for you to be here, _safe_ in the cave, monitoring the situation remotely.” He raises a hand to quiet him. “Hunters prey on outliers, loners and easy targets. We need you to start warning others about the threat, and to stay together.”

Tim threw his arms up in defeat and frustration, sitting back down on the chair with a harsh thump. 

“I know you’re miffed about it, but we can’t afford to be off on our own at the moment. We need you down here. Mister Jacob and Miss Kate may need to stay with us until this all blows over.”

“Full house,” Cassandra says, taking a seat next to him. “Loud, but good loud.”

Alfred chuckles warmly. “Quite so. I’ll make sure to stock up on meat at the farmer’s market this afternoon. Tim, we’ll get in contact with Kate while they’re at the Watchtower and work over the details.”

Tim looks dejected but says nothing further in argument. He turns to Cassandra and starts a quiet conversation while typing madly at the keyboard. Alfred turns and walks to the medical supply cabinets—he’d retrieve what he needed from Miss Leslie’s clinic before heading to the farmers market at dusk—so he'd need to do a stocktake beforehand.

The sound of the outer gate’s buzzer rang throughout the cave. The security footage from the gate appeared in a box at the top left corner of the computer’s screen—showing Selina’s nondescript car stalling outside the gate. She wore a long, fur coat, but Alfred could see her suit peeking out from the collar. It was a good thing Selina was just as paranoid as Bruce—she’d need that today. 

Tim buzzed her in, and she saluted half-heartedly at the camera before speeding down the driveway. 

“Should one of us go get her?” Tim asks without looking away from the screen. 

“Miss Selina has been in this house enough times to know where everything is, master Tim,” Alfred says. 

Cassandra’s nose scrunches up. “Gross.”

Tim muffles a choking sound, whipping around to face her. “Cass! Why would you even put that image in my head! No!”

Alfred huffs, shakes his head, and turns back to the medicine cabinets. Well, 'cabinets' is a generous term, really—they're modified filing cabinets outfitted with wheels, shelf dividers and interior padding to protect the more delicate medical instruments. 

He opens one of the drawers and frowns, seeing a noticeable lack of compression bandages. Bruce had used the roll in the Batmobile last night after a young woman had suffered a snakebite—a practical joke gone horribly wrong. 

Who puts a snake in a box and gives it to their neighbour as a fake gift? Positively ghastly. 

He turns to the staircase at the sound of the grandfather clock sliding open. Soon enough, the sound of familiar heels echoed throughout the cave as Selina descended. She’d unbuttoned her cream, faux-fur coat (she only ever wore sustainably-made faux-fur coats, or vintage genuine-fire coats that would otherwise go to waste), revealing her more casual Catsuit (as opposed to the more fortified one Bruce had helped her create), and knee-length heeled boots. 

“I come bearing gifts,” she calls from the bottom of the stairwell, just as Bruce emerges from the changing nook. 

In her hands, she holds a tray full of coffee cups. Alfred sees Tim all but launch out of his seat at the sight. Bruce sighs in defeat. 

She approaches quickly, heels clicking against the polished concrete floor. When she reaches the computer, she places the tray down and picks up one of the cups. 

“This,” she says to Tim, eyeing him carefully and using her ‘responsible adult’ voice, “is a mocha. Still got caffeine in it, but not as much as you usually have. We don’t want you having a heart attack, now.” 

Tim frowns, eyebrows knitting together. He opens his mouth to say something.

Selina draws her hand back, a smirk spreading across her features. “I _could_ just drink this myself and leave you out to dry, little birdie.”

Alfred swears he sees Tim’s soul leave his body.

“Please don’t. I will consume literally any caffeinated drink you hand me.”

“Good,” she says, handing him the cup, which he holds with reverence. Like one might hold a string of rosary beads or a sacred book.

Cassandra exhales sharply through her nose—which Alfred has learned to be a sign of her amusement. 

Selina begins distributing the rest of the cups. 

“Black tea, good sir?” She asks Alfred in a truly awful butchering of a British accent. He knows it’s intentional, and it miffs Alfred even further. 

Nevertheless, he accepts the tea. 

She gives Cassandra her flat white, who takes it with a grateful nod and smile. 

Then, she turns to Bruce, grinning. “And for the Big Bat, I’ve got a double espresso with milk chocolate, caramel and hazelnut,“ she recites, handing him the cup. Bruce grumbles but remains otherwise quiet, taking a seat at the computer. 

Alfred frowns externally, but on the inside, he beams—Bruce hadn’t outgrown his sweet tooth after all! He’d be baking shortbread cookies tonight, that was for certain. 

Tim openly gawked at his father. “How can you possibly drink something so…” 

“Sweet?” Selina finishes. 

“Yeah,” Tim frowns. 

Selina squeezes Bruce’s shoulders, spinning him around on his chair so he's facing Tim, and grins. “Well, that’s because your old man is so incredibly bitter, he has to compensate by consuming an unholy amount of sweetness in his diet.”

Tim snorts loudly before devolving into a fit of laughter. Cassandra remains impassive as ever, though Alfred notices the edges of her mouth twitch upwards in amusement.

“You have the intel on you?” Bruce asks, seemingly nonplussed (to the untrained eye, at least, but Alfred notices the little signs of amusement). Selina scoffs and rolls her eyes as if offended. 

“No, I left it back at my apartment. I drove all the way over here just to bring you brats coffee and admire your dad’s wonderful ass.”

Tim’s hands rush up to cover his ears at a speed Barry Allen would be proud of, while his face turns a shade to rival the Flash’s suit. _“Selina!”_

Bruce sighs, closing his eyes and shaking his head in exasperated fondness, just as his mother used to. 

Cass scrunches her nose. 

Selina snorts and reaches into her coat pocket to retrieve a zip-locked bag full of USB drives of varying brands and colours.

“Here ya go, boss-man. I’d have brought physical notes, but USBs are easier to carry and conceal.”

“It’d be best if you joined me up at the Watchtower with that.”

Selina blinks owlishly at him, uncharacteristically caught off-guard. 

“Are you—my God, you’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

“Wh—um, alright. Am I... Allowed up there?”

Tim shrugs. “If Bruce is welcomed back there after how furious most of the League was with him, then I’m sure you dropping in for a bit to help take down a genocidal cult will be fine.”

Selina blinks again but then breaks into her trademark Cheshire grin. 

“Well. When you put it like _that_...”

Bruce slides his chair to the right to access a different part of the computer and begins typing. 

“I’m sending out a notice to the Watchtower to let them know. You’ll be authorised for entry after I input my verification code, but it’s important you stay near me at all times.”

Selina looks as if she’s about to make another crude remark, until Alfred’s phone pings loudly. Odd. Alfred’s acquaintances and family usually called rather than texted.

Alfred pulls his phone out of his pocket, and when he sees the preview of the text on his lock screen, he nearly drops it. 

* * *

  
  


With his gear tucked away in his backpack, Jason slings a leg over his bike, but before he starts the engine, he hesitates. 

Should he really do this? Is it… The right time? 

How will everyone react? God, just when he’d got back onto speaking terms with the old man and his band of bats, something has to come along to fuck it up—jeopardise the whole fucking thing. 

How could—Christ, the thought of meeting back up with the team terrified him to no end. He hates this. He used to be friends with those people; trained with them, laughed with them and lived with them, to an extent. 

_And they still think he’s dead._

That was, well, a lot to unpack. It had been a joint decision to keep his return under wraps. He hadn’t exactly been sane or coherent when he’d first same back to Gotham, filled with seething rage and an unending _hunger_ to _hurt_ and _destroy_ and—

Nope. Fucking _nope._ Ending that train of thought right fucking there. 

So. His ex-teammates still think he’s dead. If he wanted to help in any meaningful way, well...

He would run it by Bruce, first, obviously. The League was his thing, and by extension, the Team and the Outsiders and whatever other groups were involved. 

He takes a breath and sends a text to Alfred. A very long text, explaining his plan as concisely as possible. 

Even after all this time, texting the old man… Just didn’t feel right. Hadn’t for a long time. He shook his head—that wasn’t a train of thought he wanted to continue, especially if he was going to be back at the Manor. 

A deep part of his mind screamed at him to go back inside and just bury his head in the sand. Let this whole thing blow over without him interfering again. 

No, that wasn’t an option, not since he’d rocked up in the Batmobile in an attempt to help out Dickface and his buddies with the runaway Hunters. 

Fucking _Hunters._ Jason was human and they still made his skin crawl out of rage and disgust. 

He breathes another sigh, and pulls on his helmet—regular motorbike helmet, though this one was mostly red—and thrusts the key into the ignition. He adjusts his sleeves and gloves and turns the key, revelling in the purr of the engine.

The League needed all the help they could get in dealing with these Hunters. 

So, it looks like Jason Peter Todd would need to come back from the dead. He owed it to the Young Justice guys—new and graduated alike—anyway.

_Fuck._

He speeds off towards Wayne manor before he can change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of notes, folks (I’m apparently incapable of being concise).
> 
> A Tumblr post by “dykecasswayne”, which mirrored my sentiments about Cass’ life and story arc, inspired me to make Cass’ new name “Cassandra Martha Wayne”. I know she goes by Orphan in YJ: Outsiders and in the comics for a while, but here, she was Batgirl, then Orphan (the name David Cain used), and then Batgirl again, when she decided to shed every part of David Cain’s influence from her life and change her name to Cassandra Martha Wayne. 
> 
> I really hope we get to see The Outlaws show up in season 4. We’ve seen brief glimpses of Jason (as a holo memorial, in that one scene with Garfield (the one with the VR headsets that brainwashed people?), and then when he was with Ra’s, Thalia and, presumably, baby Damian, and I’m thinking that’s the build up to his return to the fold. Ra’s said his memory was returning, after all, which I can only see to be foreshadowing. 
> 
> Originally I was going to stay true to the Young Justice timeline, but I quickly realise that’d be pretty difficult, since this fic runs with the idea that the BatFamily are actually somewhat functional and Bruce is actually a good parent/mentor, both of which are elements DC seems to enjoy ignoring. 
> 
> However, it’d feel weird for Damian to be here, so he won't be part of the Family yet. 
> 
> Jason is already back in Gotham as Red Hood and he hasn’t really reconnected with the family in any meaningful way aside from the occasional check-in—he’ll work with them if the need arises, but he’s far from rejoining the family. Cass and Jason kind of vaguely remember each other from their time with the League of Shadows, but they aren’t close. He clashes with Tim a fair bit but it’s rarely anything malicious, they just get on each other’s nerves a lot. Same with him and Bruce—they’ve both contributed to their poor relationship, but they don’t hate each other. Got that, DC?
> 
> Finally: I hope you’re all doing well in these trying times. Lord knows quarantine is driving me up the walls with pent-up energy I never knew I had. Uni’s also stressing me the hell out—good luck to my fellow students. Stay hydrated, take your medication, eat something if you haven’t already and stay safe! :)


	3. “Not Afraid”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I'm not afraid (I'm not afraid),_  
>  _To take a stand (to take a stand),_  
>  _Everybody (everybody),_  
>  _Come take my hand come (come take my hand)._  
>  _We'll walk this road together, through the storm,_  
>  _Whatever weather, cold or warm._  
>  _Just letting you know that, you're not alone,_  
>  _Holla if you feel like you've been down the same road.”_  
>  “Not Afraid” — Eminem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise if this has, so far, been a whole lot of words saying not much, but I’m really trying to cover all my base plot-wise, and I’ve just come back from a much longer than intended writing hiatus, so I’m very out of sorts and have basically forgotten how to write narratively. So, uh, bear with me please. 
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter:** There is a scene which details some symptoms of depression, and a character just not being in a good headspace, so if that’s a sensitive topic, feel free to skip it; the scene is in italics and begins and ends with double asterisks ( ** ). There’s also a scene where a character vomits after being overwhelmed with anxiety in a situation—not quite a panic attack—neither of which I describe in any explicit detail, but I thought I’d state it here anyway. Let me know if there are any scenes in past or future chapters which might need a pre-chapter warning. 
> 
> Stay hydrated, eat something (even if it’s a bit of junk food, it’s better than no food!), take your medication, feed your pets, check on any medical equipment you might have, and remember to social distance and wear a mask in public. If you can’t find the energy to shower/brush your teeth, try and wash your hands for at least ten to fifteen seconds with soap and warm water, and gargle some mouthwash. Stay safe everyone. Hygiene is especially important nowadays but please don’t exhaust yourself. :)

_“So do you guys like, eat people?” The young boy asks, swinging his legs idly, balanced on the hood of the Batmobile, munching on his burger and fries. Bruce tries not to think about how malnourished the kid—Jason—is. That’d just make him angry, and sad, and he has quite enough of that already._

_Dick frowns. “No, we don’t,” he asserts._

_Loud chewing from Jason. “I’m just askin’.”_

_“No, you’re making assumptions—”_

_Bruce sighs._

_“It’s okay, Rob—”_

_“—It’s not ‘okay’ at all, B. He’s shoving us into this tiny box and making a joke of it!”_

_“Kid,” Bruce says, and Dick quiets, still frowning, still tense._

_“He didn’t mean anything by it,” then, he looks to Jason, who looks genuinely sheepish, and smiles, “but for the record: no, we do not eat people. We mostly eat meat—lots of bloody meat—so we don’t need to feed off live animals.”_

_“Huh, that’s good…” Jason nods to himself, chewing quietly._

_“Human blood specifically isn’t necessary for our survival,” Bruce adds. “Besides, you don’t taste very good anyway.”_

_Jason laughs—not te soft chuckles he’d afforded them earlier in the evening—a full, bone-shaking laugh that has him clutching his stomach._

_Dick’s tense scowl smooths out into something more neutral._

_They sit in an amicable silence, with the boys eating their fill of fast food—with far too much salt, he’d have to compensate for that on Dick’s next meal—while Bruce flicked through the nearby CCTV feeds. He frowns as he sees a pair of teenage boys harassing a young woman leaving her apartment, but the situation resolves itself when she whips around and sprays them both with pepper spray. Bruce tries not to show his amusement, seeing the pair flail and turn tail, but judging by Dick’s knowing smirk, he’s failing._

_He can’t remember how exactly they’d gotten to the topic of Vampirism. One minute, this small, malnourished, clearly hypervigilant young boy—(don’t think about it, you can punch the punching bags later, do not go and terrify the city council into doing more for Gotham’s youth, do not do that)—was in the process of stealing Bruce’s tyres, and the next he was calling him “a boob” and then, somehow, he’d broached the topic of Batman and Robin’s rumoured inhuman nature…_ _It had snowballed from there._

_“Do you eat vegetables?” Jason asks suddenly._

_Dick snorts, popping another fry into his mouth. “I hate them, but yeah, sometimes. It’s mostly liquid stuff though—soups, juice... Lots of smoothies, the fruit and vegetable kind. We add in some supplement powders if we need ‘em.”_

_“Is that a bad thing?”_

_“Nope! Al—er, Agent A—he makes really great smoothies, and the supplements are mostly tasteless.”_

_Jason shrugs. “Never had a smoothie, so I’ll take your word on that.”_

_Bruce sincerely wants to punch something. Preferably someone. Maybe the Mayor—he could get away with that, right? That douchebag cares more about lining his pockets than making sure the kids of the city get vaccinated and fed and housed—_

_“B,” Dick tugs on his arm, calling out in a sing-song tone. “It’s nearly blanket time.”_

_Jason blinks._

_“We go buy blankets and give ‘em out to folks on the street every couple nights. Sometimes we give ‘em to the shelters, but there are way more people on the streets than in the shelters, and those people aren’t being cared for.”_

_Jason nods idly, chewing on his lip in thought. “Why do you buy them?”_

_Dick chuckles, bright and bubbly. “B’s idea—helping small businesses and all that. Keeps people on their feet.”_

_“Huh. So I guess even if they go an’ resell ‘em all, that’s still a good thing.”_

_“Exactly. If they don’t want the blanket they can pass it on to someone else or pawn it off to buy some food. Some people have shelter or sleep in their cars, and they just need some food to make ends meet. Other people rough it out in alleys and sewer outlets.”_

_Jason nods, contemplative. He wipes his fingers on his pants and drops down onto the ground. He shifts his eyes to his hands, which he shoves into his pockets. He’s nervous. Cautious. Bruce feels another flare of anger and sadness for this child._

_“Can I help?” He asks, and then he’s stumbling over his words, giving justifications. I know a couple of ‘em—more than a couple, actually—and I haven’t seen a few of ‘em in a while, so it’d be good to check in, I guess.”_

_Dick and Bruce share a knowing look._

_“I think it’d be better if you hand them out separately to us—for your safety—but I think that’s a great idea.”_

_Jason nods and smiles thinly, and Bruce can see the grateful, excited glint in his eyes._

_Dick grabs Bruce’s gauntleted hand and grins._

_Maybe this could work._

  
  


* * *

Kate rests her butt against her dad’s kitchen island, opening her phone and scrolling through her notifications as she waits for him to finish packing.

Being ex-military, like her, he’s painstakingly efficient and detail-oriented, packing and folding everything in precise order to maximise space efficiency. She answers an email from one of the board members of Kane Industries—confirming that she’d be available only by video or phone call for the foreseeable future—and then opens a text from Bruce.

**Bruce:** When will you and Jacob be arriving at the Manor? 

Kate checks the time—just past one p.m.—checks the live traffic app for Gotham, calculates roughly the time it would take with the amount of traffic and then answers the text.

**Me:** no later than 1400, there’s a fair bit of traffic. Calm your moobs we’ll be there soon

**Bruce:** …

**Me:** “man-boobs”

**Bruce:** I hate that. So much.

**Me:** you have bigger boobs than I do dude I’m just being realistic

**Bruce:** Katherine Rebecca Kane, in the name of all that is holy, please never refer to me as that again.

Kate snorts violently, and her dad looks at her funny from the dining table where he’s stuffing his electronics into a backpack. She shows him her phone, and he rolls his eyes at her with a slight sigh. 

“Don’t tease him too much, Katy,” he says fondly, removing his shoes from the suitcase and replacing them for the third time. 

“Yeah, he might feel an emotion for once.”

_“Kate.”_

“Right, okay, that was mean.” A beat. “You haven’t put your socks in, that’s why the shoes won’t fit properly, there’s a gap below them.”

“Oh, son of a gun—thanks.”

Kate returns to her phone. 

**Me:** ok moobs

**Bruce:** ...

**Bruce:** I’m regretting this already.

**Me:** Also aren’t you an atheist? 

**Bruce:** Buddhist, actually. 

Kate blinked at the blunt correction, so unlike the usually evasive Bruce. 

**Me:** Cool, did not know that. Good for you. I guess a few months or years or whatever in the middle of the Himalayas will convert a guy. 

**Me:** also, what’s the rush to the manor, aside from the new guys? 

**Bruce:** I’m meeting with the group soon and I’d like to make sure you and Jacob are safe with us before then. We will meet in the study before I leave. 

**Me:** awww bruce you do love me!

**Bruce:** Only sometimes. I’ll see you soon. Don’t die on the way here.

Kate cackles, and shows her phone to her dad again. 

“I’m guessing this “group” is the League?” 

“Yeah, he’s super paranoid, as if that wasn’t already abundantly clear. This _is_ a secure line, he made damn sure of that.”

Her dad shrugs, pulling on his jacket. “From what I understand, his paranoia has been all that’s kept us suckers alive on more than a few occasions.”

Kate humms. “Yeah, that’s true, much as I hate to admit it.”

He smiles. “Alright, come on, go get your things so we can blow this joint! Yeet out of here!”

_“Oy vey,_ dad, please stop.”

* * *

“Sorry, back up,” Dick raises his hands and leans forward in his chair, hunching over the Cave’s metal meeting table, “how long did you say these _Silver Cloak_ psychos have been here?” 

Selina’s expression turns grim. “Active—that is, running around killing people—for four months, to the best of my knowledge. They seem to have been lying dormant in Gotham for a further five, gathering intel and securing their supply line.”

“You’re shitting me.” 

“I wish I was. Though, most of my contacts aren’t too focused on goings-on outside of Gotham, and the Hunters seem to have been moving progressively North-Eastward—if the previous out-of-state attacks are anything to go by—so there's no telling how long they’ve been scoping us out, or pulling strings behind the scenes without actually being here.”

“Great. Awesome. Cool.” Dick sits back in his chair, which reclines slightly under his weight. The chairs in the cave are top-of-the-line because they get so much use, and Tim is grateful for the back support because he’s _far_ too tired for this bullshit.

“Fantastic,” Dick repeats, scrubbing both hands down his face. 

The feeling is mutual—Tim feels like hell. To his left, Cass sits silently, contemplative, frowning. Steph, to his right, nibbles at her right thumbnail, her left hand drumming absently on her thigh. Harper nibbles on her bottom lip, scowling at a spot on the table. 

Babs is silent over the call, but he guesses she’s not much happier about this then they are—she’s probably the most frustrated, since her job is mostly counter-intelligence and surveillance.

Jason—and, damn, _that’s_ still something he’s gotta get used to—sits in silence, but the crease between his eyebrows shows he’s not nearly as calm as he seems to be. 

“I’m not pleased about this, either,” Bruce muses, which is clear, but Alfred had been talking to him about actually _voicing_ his thoughts more often, no matter how mundane or obvious, which he has clearly been taking seriously. 

Selina scrolls her way down a file containing profiles of dozens of people—Tim feels dread settle in his stomach when he sees the image of a girl who couldn’t have been any older than six when she died. 

“Vampires, Wicca, Old Magi, Were-Kind, Sprites, humans—just about anybody’s fair game for this group. Kids included. And from what my sources are telling me, they take no prisoners and leave no survivors. And since no sprite wings or wolf bones or what have you have shown up on the black market—at least not any I’m familiar with—it’s safe to say these guys are entirely mission oriented.”

“The mission being genocide,” Harper finishes, hands clasped together so har her knuckles had started to turn white. 

An uneasy silence settles over the table for a moment, everyone absorbing the information. 

Selina shakes her head. “Top-of-the-line combatants—though you guys’d be a better judge of that than me—with cash up to their eyeballs and no discernible pattern of attack. Cops can’t figure out how they’re finding their targets, nor their methods of ingress or egress.”

Kate runs a hand down her face, grimacing. “So, it’s a shitshow.”

Selina nods, running her tongue over her teeth. 

“So, last night I was talking to some of the guys near the Iceberg Lounge, and they’re getting real worked up about this group; uncaring of territorial boundaries and all. Word is that Penguin’s heard a fair bit about the new guys and wants to take ‘em out. Get rid of the competition, probably. You know what Cobblepot and his chopper squad* are like.”

Tim grimaces. Great. Just what they need—a pseudo-gang war between Penguin’s guys and a sizable band of Hunters. 

“Cobblepot isn't happy about these newcomers cruising through territories without a care in the world. As soon as he heard about the group a few weeks back, he and his put some feelers out lookin’ for ‘em—weapons caches, vehicle dealers, safehouses, all that—and they’ve been coming back with more intel than I know what to do with.”

Selina clicks through a few windows before she finds a folder labelled “Hunters—JL”.

“I expect a lot of it is probably bogus, or misheard—Chinese whispers and whatnot—but you’d be the better judge of that than I am. This folder,” she points to the screen, “is a little something I put together from what I got from my guys. There are dozens of silver mines across New Jersey; there should be a map on there detailing which ones are likely supplying the group.” 

Bruce flicks through a few more windows and clicks on a map of New Jersey, with several locations circled, crossed out, labelled with question marks, and various other annotations. 

Another window pops up, and on it are three pictures—one a mug shot—with several dot-points below under the subheading of: _“possible operatives.”_

Tim’s eyebrows shoot upwards. He knows Selina is kickass, but this is a whole other level. 

“The ones circled in red are the ones you should look into. You should also have a document with some other neat stuff—a weapons dealer posing as an antique shop, auto-parts joint making their vehicles, garages storing them, some travel routes…”

She waves her hands in some inexplicable gesture. 

“But I’m afraid I’ve hit a dead end as to their buyer—no doubt some mundane-looking Shelf company. Because, believe me, stealing jewelry and silverware will only get you so much pure metal,” she says with a half-hearted smile. 

Bruce sends her a withering scowl that has approximately zero effect. 

“But this is just for their ongoing arms manufacturing—from that footage you and Flash saw, they’ve got literal truck-fulls of silver weapons and vehicles. Guns, crossbows, knives, cars, trucks, bikes, the whole shebang.” She sends a scowl of her own to Bruce. “Thanks for telling me you _nearly died,_ by the way. I had to hear that from _Huntress_ , of all people!”

Bruce grunts softly, about as embarrassed as Tim has seen him in recent times. Though everyone at the table had already sunk their proverbial teeth into him (ha ha) about that, hearing Bruce’s, uh, _occasional night-time companion_ , berate him is just icing on the cake. 

Tim isn’t quite sure how Huntress found out about Bruce getting stabbed—but he’s guessing the fact that the Bertinellis were also a prominent vampire family before Helena’s parents were killed likely plays into it. 

“Well, I think I have a lead on one storage facility,” Babs cuts in, swooping to Bruce’s rescue. “Team Arrow and the FBI came across what they thought was a basement full of dope, but was actually full of weapons and anti-magic paraphernalia.Bags of salt, stolen holy water—at least, I’m _hoping_ it’s stolen—garlic wreaths, mistletoe, silver, white sage…”

Christ. This group wasn’t pulling any punches. 

“Half of that stuff’s useless against anything that isn’t a poltergeist—half of Italy wouldn’t exist if Vampires en masse were allergic to garlic,” Steph jokes, but Tim sees the worry etched into her features. “They can’t be too smart if they buy into baseless rumours like that. But...”

“But that also makes them more dangerous,” Bruce finishes. “Ignorance is a deadly weapon if wielded by the wrong people.”

Jason huffs. “Fancy wordplay for the college dropout.”

Cackles erupt around the table. 

Bruce raises a carefully manicured eyebrow, and his lips tick upwards slightly, but says nothing in return. 

“So, now we have proper targets,” Kate says, drumming her fingers quietly on the table. “If we hit their supply lines, we’ll starve them out into the open. Make them desperate.”

“War of attrition,” Tim muses, already making calculations in his head about the best routes and team-ups. 

“And, because they are technically classified as terrorists,” Selina begins, “we’ll have the full support of the United States government in kicking them the hell outta dodge, and straight into the Big House. Death Row, if we’re lucky.” 

Bruce exhales through his nose in amusement—there’s gotta be a word for that, right? Dammit, now Tim’s gonna have to spend the next couple hours scouring the internet for that term—and folds his arms. “Turns out the government is actually useful for something.”

Everyone at the table has another solid laugh at that comment. 

“Hey, B,” Babs calls out after having a chuckle of her own, “Flash collected a hair sample from one of his crime-scenes, right?”

Bruce sits fully upright.   
  


“Yes.”

“It says here that the CCPD have identified who that sample belongs to, but unfortunately it doesn’t seem to be one of the Hunters, it’s actually from a victim killed prior to that attack—which the cops still haven’t been able to identify. Some poor Jane Doe they found stuffed in a dumpster.” Babs sighs. “I wish I had better news.” 

“Yeah, same here kitty-cat,” Selina huffs, “but it’s no big. It’ll come together soon enough.”

“I’ve got Renee speaking to a couple of her civilian assets, but I doubt that'll amount to anything,” Kate shrugs. 

“And Kon said he’s keeping an ear out for Hunters in Metropolis,” Tim says, “though they haven’t made any moves in New York, they’re most likely setting up a base there.”

“That’s good,” Babs muses, “we need to figure out how they’ve wormed their way into Gotham, and where their previous home base was beforehand. Any information helps, no matter how trivial.”

Bruce clears his throat, silencing the table. “One final thing,” he says, an unusual hesitance in his tone. He gestures to Jason, who exhales deeply—not quite a sigh, it’s more like he’s bracing himself for something. 

Tim doesn’t like the sound of this one bit.

“Okay, so, basically—” he takes his feet down from the table, sitting properly upright—“I’d like to come back from the dead. To the League. Like, today.”

Oh, yeah, okay, Tim definitely isn’t ready for this bullshit. 

* * *

**

_The rain is light, but Bruce’s heart is heavy, filled with anger and regret and sorrow. But worst of all is the emptiness—that wide, gaping hole inside of him, clawing at his organs and screaming at him until his ears ring and then he hears nothing at all._

_After his parents died, he had expected to feel sad. And he did—still does at the most random of times. But he hadn’t expected the all-encompassing numbness he’d wake up to, and live through, at any given moment. No rhyme or reason. One day he’d be going about his life and the next he’d feel nothing at all, and he’d wonder if it was even worth getting out of bed._

_Wondered if anything was worth it._

_“I don’t know what to do,” Bruce whispers, hands fisted at his sides, kneeling helplessly before his parents’ headstones. “My son—” He takes a fortifying breath. “—Jason. He’s dead. My son is dead and it's my fault.”_

_The clouds above him finally open up, and the light drizzle turns into an all-out downpour. Bruce doesn’t move._

_“We’re… We’re going to wait a few days until—until his funeral. Make sure everyone can get here.”_

_Silence. More rain. The distant roll of thunder._

_“I know you’re both disappointed in me. Maybe if I’d been a better father, he wouldn’t have been so desperate to find one, and—” Bruce swallowed, choking back a sob. “I was always so hard on him. Why couldn't I be like you, so quick to reassure, to comfort? He probably—God, he probably spent his last few seconds of life with the fucking clown thinking I didn’t care about him.”_

_His throat burns, and his stomach churns. He welcomed the anger, and the shame, because anything is better than the numbness. A hot tear escapes his eyes and Bruce lets it._

_“I don’t know if heaven or hell exists, but if they do, and Ja—if he's up there with you, I hope you take good care of him, like you did for me.”_

_Silence. A flash of lightning. More rain. Another rumble of thunder._

_The rain stops Above him. There’s a hand on his shoulder, a shadow over his body. A gentle squeeze at his shoulder._

Alfred. 

_He turns and buries his face into his leg._

_His father’s leg._

_**_

* * *

  
  


Selina waves at Superman. 

Superman offers an awkward wave back. 

There are many faces Selina doesn’t recognise in the general meeting room; newer people who had no active assignments or were better suited for intelligence gathering, Bruce had informed her. Trust Batman to turn this into a learning experience. 

Selina also doesn’t care much for who’s in the League, save for the core team and most of the Gotham-bound heroes, but she’d paid attention to the brief rundown of who’d be in attendance so she wasn’t surprised. She appreciates that. 

The room had been empty when the four of them had first arrived—by Bruce’s careful design—so that when those attending the meeting arrived, they could only gawk in silence at them instead of making a big fuss about it if they had arrived later. 

She went into this knowing that these people distrusted her already—well, some of them anyway. Most people either didn't know who she was and were wary because of that, or they were curious because she’s sitting beside _Batman._ It could also be the fact that she’s dressed head-to-toe in black leather that left little to the imagination, knee-high heeled boots and is wearing a whip.

Yeah, that’s probably most of the reason. 

Jason and Selina are bracketed on either sides by Dick and Bruce—another of Bruce’s suggestions—and are sat at one end of the oval table, their backs to the screen. She sees Wonder Woman, Superman, Hawkgirl, Green Lantern—the brunette one—as well as Red Tornado enter at around the same time. She smiles and waves at Dinah as she and Arrow enter, and Dinah gives her a double thumbs-up. 

Superboy strolls in beside a Miss Martian and a girl who must be Tigress, shortly followed by two other kids Selina doesn’t know the names of, but judging by their youthful figures, they’re part of the Outsiders. The girl—dark skinned and wearing a hijab—goes very quiet and stiff, and she zeroes in on Jason, and her eyes glow and shimmer in a strange myriad of colours before she snaps out of whatever strange trance she’d been in. She scurries off towards the back of the room with the others. 

“Halo knows something,” Dick murmurs, and Jason tenses. 

“It’s fine,” Bruce replies, voice equally as low. “It’s fine.”

Jason gives a sharp jerk of his head which Selina assumes is a nod. 

“Halo—that's the chick who got fused with a Mother Box, right?” Selina asks quietly. She knows very little about all this alien tech, but Bruce had given her a run-down some time ago in the event she encountered some on her… Completely legal adventures. 

“There’s a bit more to it than that, but yeah, basically,” Dick answers. 

A few more people arrive, and Selina internally rates their outfits to distract herself from the vague feeling of unease she feels being in a room with so much… Suspicion. Heroism. Stifling testosterone— _not_ the fun kind. 

“Everyone’s here,” Red Tornado eventually says in that unsettlingly mechanical voice of his. 

Selina stands and rests a hand on her hip—just to give herself something to do—and faces the rest of the room. 

“Selina Kyle—Catwoman,” she introduces. She tones down the grin she’d normally use into something less Cheshire and more average. “Gotham-bound can-opener* at your behest. I’m here to give you intel on this Hunter group—the Silver Cloak, they call themselves—that's cropped up recently. Any questions before we start?”

Silence. Awkward eye contact and more confused stares. A quiet murmur. 

“Can opener?” One kid asks—she recognises Beast Boy immediately from YouTube. 

“Safe-cracker, cat-burglar, what-have-you,” she waves her clawed hands in a flippant manner. 

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Jason lets out a snort which sounds vaguely like a chainsaw starting up because of the helmets distortion tech. 

She notices Dinah hiding a smile and Green Lantern cracking a grin. 

“We good now?”

Wonder Wooman nods. 

“Ducky*. So, this group, our intel suggests they first showed up about nine months ago…”

  
  


* * *

Jason had expected an explosion. A burst of anger and confusion and horror, and maybe even a little relief. 

He’d expected it, but that didn’t mean he was prepared for it. 

The Team… He hadn’t known them well—not as well as he’d known Bruce, or Alfred, or Dick, or Babs—but they were his friends, not too long ago. Connor, Artemis, Zatanna, M’gann, Kaldur. Roy. Wally...

And for _years_ , they’d thought he was dead. 

Well, okay, to be fair, he _did_ die, but no one was counting on Jason Todd waking up in his own fucking grave. His—he still feels kind of weird about calling the Bats family, considering he’s tried to kill most of them at least once, but he supposes that’s what they are—sure didn’t think he would. Bruce had held Jason’s _corpse_ in his arms. Cried over his mangled body. Nearly beat the clown into a bloody paste before Clark and Gordon had stopped him. 

There was… More anger towards Bruce and Dick than he’d expected, and Jason felt something ugly settle in his gut when the team confronted them both. They were especially vicious with Dick—Jason knew the guy had a track record for faking people’s deaths—but the sheer violence of their rage set Jason’s teeth on edge. 

Then, they rounded on the rest of the League, Clark, Diana, Hal, Barry, J’onn… They’d only recently learned of Jason’s return to the mortal world, 

Eventually, when it was clear they wouldn’t back down, Jason had to step in to clarify. 

No, neither Bruce nor Dick had faked Jason’s death—which, well, that was still something that Jason had to wrap his head around. Jason had, in fact, been murdered by _'t_ _hat fucking clown'_. And he understandably wasn’t exactly in the best of headspaces after all that time with the League of Shadows… All that damn programming and brainwashing… The dip in the Lazarus pit… That year of being back in Gotham, veins filled with an ancient curse and an all-encompassing, homicidal rage. His thoughts consisting of little other than _“kill Tim Drake, kill the replacement, Bruce never gave a damn about you Jason, look how quick everyone forgot about you, Bruce needs to die, Dick isn’t your brother—he lied to you too, you were never part of that fucking family—”_

He kept the details vague—he really didn’t want to remember _any part_ of that time—but when he mentioned the League of Shadows, Ra’s, and the Lazarus Pit, the pieces seemed to click in place for everyone. 

“Fuck that whole operation!” Artemis had shouted, hands fisted in her hair. “We were—dammit, we were _on_ Infinity Island with you! We spoke to you, while that fucking psycho had you! God, I’m so sorry—”

Connor hadn’t said much, aside from a few angry outbursts and frantic questions, clearly not processing what was happening. 

M’gann was in a similar situation, probably overwhelmed with all the psychic information everyone was radiating, their mental barriers knocked down by shock, leaving their thoughts on full display. He didn’t envy her.

Zatanna had burst into tears almost immediately and had to leave the room for a while to compose herself, but had since returned and given him a bone-breaking hug. 

Roy had stood in silence for most of it, but offered up a brief hug when the shock of the situation had mostly cleared up. 

It was good for them all to let it out, to say what they needed to and get it out in the open. No misinterpretations, no false information, no double-meanings. Just an open forum of screaming and crying and talking. But it was all so overwhelming for Jason, that even when their anger, frustration, confusion and distrust morphed into joy, he still felt suffocated. 

The gathered members of the Outsiders regarded him with varying amounts of fascination, shock, horror, and confusion. They hadn't said anything to him specifically, but they talked up a storm amongst themselves. 

He's glad Bruce dismissed the other Leaguers, leaving only the original members of the Young Justice Team, The Outsiders, and the Core JL; he doesn't;t think he could stomach talking about Ethiopia or The League with a bunch of strangers in the room. 

He’d lasted little more than thirty minutes after the whole resurrection explanation before he felt his stomach twist and sink, and he began to salivate unexpectedly, and Jason was tugging on Bruce’s cape like he had when he was a kid—despite being almost as tall as he is, now—letting him know he needed to step out. Bruce saw the desperation in his eyes and nodded, clearing a path for him to the door.

Everyone was understanding of the circumstances, and he heard a few people chattering about setting up an official “welcome back” party or gathering later on, which Jason weakly agreed to, before he sprinted out of the room and bolted for the nearest bathroom. 

He locked himself in one of the rooms—because the Watchtower had separate, private toilet rooms, not lowly stalls—and proceeded to regurgitate his breakfast and lunch into the porcelain bowl. 

The acid of the bile burned his throat, and saliva dribbled out of his mouth as he hung his head, breathing deeply through his nose—like Bruce and Alfred had once instructed him—as chills racked his body. 

He couldn’t place how long he was in there, spitting bile and saliva into the toilet bowl, breathing heavily, balancing his head on one arm. He’d folded his legs beneath him, his combat boots forcing him to rest them at a weird angle. He’d pushed his sleeves up initially, but now he takes the time to remove his leather jacket entirely, grateful he’d left the helmet inside the meeting room. 

He hears the door to the toilet complex open, and he goes completely still. He hears a brush of fabric rubbing against itself, and familiar, soft footsteps against the tile. 

“I’m sorry,” he calls out, just loud enough to be heard. Any louder and he’d irritate his stomach, which would just make him more miserable. 

“Don’t apologise, Jay,” Bruce says, voice soft. “I know you wanted to do this, and I’m glad you did on your own terms, and I know getting overwhelmed after all that is upsetting for you.” 

Jason holds back a sob. God, he forgot how much of a _dad_ Bruce could be—beneath all his own anxiety and stoicism and emotional ineptness, he did care, despite all the lies and horrors Talia and Ra’s fed him. He’s genuine, but unsure. Cautious. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. 

Neither does Jason. 

“Knock once if you want me to leave,” Bruce says, “and I’ll leave you be, and I’ll send in Dick, or I’ll bring Alfred up.”

Jason chuckles wetly. 

“I’m serious, Jay. I want to help, but I know I’m not—”

“Stay,” he calls out, and then his throat closes, and the air is sucked out of his lungs, and his palms turn clammy. Fuck, why did he say that—

“Of course.”

His chest fills with warmth, but not from the stomach acid. 

He taps his nail against the bowl in such a way that it could be heard through the door, tapping out his gratitude in Morse code. 

They remain in silence for a few minutes. Jason vomits again a few times, and he can hear Bruce rummaging through his utility belt for something to help—antacids, probably; pepto-bismol, or some of that edible mint or ginger gum he used to give him on patrol when he got particularly anxious. 

Jason’t stomach had settled a little, but the chills hadn’t stopped, and the feeling of something snaking around his ribcage and compressing like a python hadn’t faded. 

The Pit is still screaming at him, as it always seems to when he got agitated or upset, but it’s manageable enough for now. 

“I think I’d like to go back in a little bit,” he says, breaking the amicable, if a little awkward, silence. “To the meeting room,” he clarifies, “get a meet-up organised or something for later on.”

“That sounds like a good plan. I’ve got some pPepto-Bismol for you out here, as well. And some gum, if you want it.”

Jason manages a weak laugh, pushing himself upwards using the toilet seat as leverage. 

“No, I want to have the taste of vomit in my mouth all day,” he jokes, slipping his jacket back on. 

Bruce makes a noise of amusement—not quite a grunt, but similar. 

Jason opens the door, not looking in Bruce’s direction—because he feels if he does, he'll end up right back over the toilet—and heads for the ink. He splashes his face a few times and rinses his mouth. He tips his head and takes a few small mouthfuls of water, and then splashes his face again. 

He stands up and looks at himself in the mirror, seeing the flush on his face had died down, but he was noticeably paler than usual. 

Bruce is standing off to the side, pepto-bismol and gum in hand, observing him quietly. He hands the antacids over wordlessly, and Jason pops two pills in his mouth and returns to the faucet, taking another mouthful of water. 

He takes a few deep breaths and turns to Bruce, who hands him the gum, concern evident in the tilt of his lips. 

“Thanks,” he says, meeting Bruce’s eyes behind the white lenses of the cowl.

Bruce nods, and he lifts an arm as if to wrap it around Jason’s shoulders, but then he draws it backwards. He instead waves it towards the door to the bathroom complex.

“After you,” he says, voice stilted, and Jason feels slightly less queasy, knowing—seeing—that Bruce is as scared of fucking this up as he is.

Yeah, Jason thinks he’s gonna be alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Chopper squad:** mobsters/guys with machine guns. A “chopper” refers to a Thompson “tommy” submachine gun, due to the damage its .45 caliber rounds does to the human body (ie. “chops” it into bits). I included this because I headcanon that Gotham has retained a lot of Jazz Age slang and it’s slowly developed into its own esoteric little dialect. 
> 
> * **Big House:** jail/prison
> 
> * **Can-opener:** safe-cracker
> 
> * **Ducky:** lit. “very good”


End file.
